


Could I Need You This Much

by lanasauli



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Antisemitism, Comfort Sex, Ethnic slurs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Beach Divorce, Probably too much sap but oh well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-26
Updated: 2012-07-26
Packaged: 2017-11-10 18:21:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanasauli/pseuds/lanasauli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles is all too familiar with prejudice - it's one of the more unfortunate consequences of being a telepath. It's easy to ignore, until it's directed at Erik.</p>
<p>Or: Charles and Erik encounter an antisemite while recruiting. Charles overreacts and almost loses control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Could I Need You This Much

**Author's Note:**

> For this prompt: Someone calls one of them something mean and the other makes a big fuss and then they go home to be intense
> 
> This was supposed to be for the other fic I wrote, And Then it Gets Intense and They Do It, but this got too serious and h/c to go with the ridiculous crack of the other fic. I had to post this separately. Just had to.
> 
> The title is from Head Over Heels by Tears for Fears.
> 
> By the way, a warning - there are a few slurs in here, both homophobic and antisemitic.
> 
> I'm sorry if I've failed. Euughhgh, god.

Charles is intimately familiar with the dregs of humanity. Normally, those thoughts are all white noise tinged with anger and irrational hatred, and Charles doesn’t listen long or closely enough to catch more than that. He’s not sure he’ll ever be perfect at turning a deaf ear to it completely, though. Prejudice is usually loud and jarring.

Idaho rattles Charles’ brain. He hears _faggots_ or _cocksuckers_ if he and Erik walk too closely together, if someone doesn’t like his accent; hears _kraut_ when they hear Erik’s, and, for a brief moment, Charles wonders how they would revise their judgments if they caught sight of the numbers tattooed on Erik’s arm. He dreads it, because he is not half the idealist Erik thinks he is. At least, not in this respect.

For all his worries, Charles doesn’t think that will actually happen. Erik seldom leaves his arms exposed, probably for that very reason. Charles is the only person Erik doesn’t actively hide his body from, and even _that_ is a very recent development.

But it is mid-summer and unnaturally hot for the area, and wearing a turtleneck in degrees in the high eighties garners much more attention than either of them are comfortable with. They’re oddities as it is, and besides, it is madness to cover up in this heat.

It’s the day they’re due to meet a mutant with some kind of gift in psionics – Charles thinks she is a clairvoyant, though he tries not to draw conclusions until they’ve actually met the mutant in question – and Erik dons a white polo shirt that fits his trim figure like it was tailor-made for him. He’s just combed his hair, but the humidity’s making him look more disheveled than usual, a little wild. And normally, Charles would sidle along him, press a nipping kiss to his neck and smile against Erik’s skin when his breath hitches, and maybe they’d delay the trip a little while longer while they come apart under each other’s hands. Charles wants to touch him, lay his palms flat on Erik’s chest and slide them down until he grasps his hips, pulls them snug to his own, noses along that strong jaw—

But he quiets that line of thought when he notices that Erik’s thoughts are buzzing with more anxiety than usual. He looks tensed and ready for an altercation. And Charles knows why, without intruding at all, when Erik slips a belt on and he catches a flash of the numbers. Charles has felt, inadvertently, through Erik, hot iron, a nerve-jarring, disorienting pain, has felt Erik wishing he could disconnect from his body, felt the nameless horror of being reduced to a number.

Sometimes, when Erik is asleep, Charles feels it hurt so badly that he wants to crawl inside him and take it for himself, share some of it so that it’s just a dark shadow and not a hulking monster every night, but Erik will never stand to take more than being in Charles’ arms.

Charles knows that he loves him, knew it before the road trip, and it’s soft and unfurling deep in his chest. Sometimes it’s sort of sad. Usually it’s terrifying. But then there are times it’s warm and dizzying, how love is supposed to be, and, for all of his telepathic know-how and accidental, indirect life experience through others, he has no idea how to say it.

Erik cocks his head in the direction of the door, a silent _Ready?_ and Charles doesn’t know what to do but smile his warmest smile at Erik against the trepidation in his heart.

\--

The man distrusts them solely because they’re foreigners; Charles senses that already, and it’s certainly doing nothing to quell the uncharacteristic dread creeping inside him.

“Waddaya mean my Catherine’s special?” the willowy man at the door asks snappishly, already on the defensive.

“We think she may have a gift,” Charles says, because it’s more delicate that mutation. “It’s…something that sets her apart from others. My colleague and I were hoping to speak with her for a moment—”

Suddenly, Charles catches a movement from the corner of his eye. He sees Erik thoughtlessly bringing his hand up to smooth back a lock of hair that’s slid out of place. But the numbers flash, and Charles is not the only one to notice it, and he thinks, _please, please let me be wrong about this—_

But he’s not, because Charles hears the intent just a split second before the man says it.

“Listen,” he starts in, edgy and bristling. “I won’t have you or a goddamn kike fillin’ my girl’s head with whatever fucked up ideas you got.”

And Erik doesn’t even have time to react the way he should, the way he normally would, because Charles is already awash in his own rage, nerves shaking with it, laced with grief, and all he can think is, _make him hurt, make him hurt._

But then there’s something forceful and loud in his head. Just as angry, and twice as desperate: _Charles_ , no. _Don’t do this._

And then Erik’s dragging Charles off of the dilapidated porch because he’s too stunned at the ringing in his head to find his own feet.

“I’ll drive.” Erik says when they get to the car, clipped and controlled, and Charles just nods dumbly.

Charles’ anger doesn’t last. He isn’t the type to get angry about much anything. Kurt made him wary of anger; almost afraid of it, and he’s pretty sure he likes it better that way, because anger is a much more destructive force than grief – especially for a telepath.

He’s not used to it, and he’s wrung out and pale when it suddenly gives way to acute disappointment. He’s not sure if it’s targeted at humanity as a whole or himself, but it’s there, burgeoning and loud.

He looks at Erik, the rhythmic tensing of his jaw as he grits his teeth, the tight set of his mouth, and (worst of all) the disturbing vacancy in his eyes. Charles wonders if hearing that word takes him back. He almost tells Erik to turn the car around, moral scruples be damned, except he feels ashamed of himself for even considering it.

So he doesn’t say anything to Erik until they get back to the hotel. The entire drive is the uncomfortable kind of quiet. Charles feels the air go heavier with the things he’s not sure he should voice.

“We can…we can leave whenever you’d like,” Charles finally says when they step inside the room, not even discouraged by the unmanly break in his voice. “There’s nothing keeping us here anymore. I know we’d planned on leaving tomorrow morning regardless of whether she came with us or not, but, really, why dally if we don’t need—”

“No. It’s fine.” Erik stops him tonelessly. Charles stills. Watches Erik stand prone, with his back to him, and marvels at the fact that he’s never heard Erik sound like that. Neutral and colorless and watered down to nearly nothing. Charles thinks anger would be so much better than this.

He should probably let it go. Maybe go out for a couple of hours, give Erik some space, let him be whatever he’s not being right now because Charles is watching and inadvertently listening, but he can’t. There’s a pressure at his chest, a pull, and it sucks the air from his lungs when he even thinks of resisting it.

He takes a step toward Erik, and half of another one, before he remembers to stop himself.

When he finds it in himself to ask, it’s tentative and hushed, but his voice doesn’t break, not this time.

“Why did you stop me?”

Erik finally turns around then, looking grieved and more than a little incredulous. It wrecks Charles to see him like this, but it’s better than the vacancy.

“Why did I stop you?” Erik parrots with a shattering sort of laugh. “You’re not me, Charles. You still have so much to lose. And…on my behalf? Absolutely not.”

_You still have virtue_ , Charles wants to yell back.

“But—what he said, you can’t just expect me to let it _go_ —” he protests instead, voice rising with hysterics at each word.

“That’s hardly the first time I’ve been called a kike.” Erik frowns; swallows thickly, and Charles knows better to believe the casual note in his tone. He sounds like he’s going to say something else, but he doesn’t. He looks at the wall behind Charles, but he’s not seeing it. Charles knows what he’s seeing, without his telepathy.

“Erik,” he calls; tries to bring him back. He suppresses his rising panic when it doesn’t work; crosses the rest of the distance between them.

He brings a hand to Erik’s shoulder and squeezes it gently, knees almost buckling in relief when Erik snaps out of his memories and leans into Charles.

“That doesn’t excuse it.” is Charles’ belated and earnest response. Erik says nothing; just knits his eyebrows and fixes his eyes to the floor. “And before you say it,” Charles starts again before he can stop himself. “I am not naïve. This isn’t me being…surprised. I’m, just. I’m upset. And angry. And, it just, it scares me that you must be, too, but I can’t see it. You just seemed so empty and I don’t want…can’t, can’t stand for you to be alone with this anymore.”

Charles’ voice is choked at the effort of talking around the tightness in his throat. But it’s all true, and he doesn’t regret any of it at all, especially not when it prompts Erik to finally find Charles’ eyes with a shocked snap of movement.

The moment’s suspended for longer than it has the right to. Charles threads his fingers through Erik’s and wishes he could share it; some of it, at least. Ease the burden, as much as Erik will let him.

After a beat, Charles can almost hear the protests welling behind Erik’s lips, so he silences them with a kiss before they can reach air. Swallows those words, hushes Erik with a whisper of a touch. But then it gets louder when Erik makes a soft, relenting noise through his nose, and Charles can’t help himself anymore. His jaw goes slack, lips parting to lick along Erik’s mouth so that he opens it and shudders almost convulsively.

It’s the slow, gently evolving kiss that leaves them both trembling with need before they’ve even begun to really touch each other. They melt into each other, unbelievably relaxed and comforted with the essence of the other, like today never happened. Charles is stricken with the urge _(need)_ to give all that he can; heal new hurts and ease old ones. So he does it the only way Erik will let him; opens him up physically before he can mentally. He kisses and touches Erik until he’s groaning faintly into Charles’ mouth, until he’s licking at that probing tongue and trembling under the warm hands sliding up his biceps, until he’s tugging at Charles’ shirt. 

They only stop a moment to strip each other bare-chested before they’re at it again. Charles loves the ache in his jaw and his lips, thinks it’s so satisfying the way it burns him under his skin and gathers heavy and warm in his cock.

They’re wrapped in each other, arms clinging and chests flush, and Charles feels it; shivers delightedly at the firm press of Erik’s arousal through his trousers. And then Erik must decide that’s enough, because then he’s palming Charles’ hips and walking the both of them to the bed. Charles is breathlessly relieved, because he’s not sure how much longer he can stand not having Erik beside him, under him, on top of him, inside of him, inside of Erik; he _doesn’t care_ ; he just needs it.

And he loves it when Erik is beside himself with pleasure, sexual or otherwise, and he’s not lost inside himself anymore. Charles loves that Erik can get lost in him, that this part of the two of them is so comfortable and easy and nothing’s ever felt so natural.

Even after they’ve landed in a clumsy heap atop the coverlet, Erik still won’t let go of his hips. He pulls them down to his and parts his thighs so that Charles fits into him, snug and perfect.

And then they’re rutting against each other through more breathless kisses. Erik can’t seem to keep his hands from roaming. Charles is arching over top of him, senseless with arousal and bone-deep pleasure. Erik’s hands slip into his trousers to palm his ass, squeeze at the soft curve of it, until Charles shivers and moans shamelessly to say, “More, uhn, please, _more_ ,”

His entire body seizes up when Erik rubs at his hole. He feels a hot flush rise to his cheeks, to his tingling lips. And he feels exulted, finally, when he looks at Erik through his strands of sweat-damp hair, and the pain in that face is smoothed out to pleasure and admiration and—wonder.

His heart rattles in his chest, and it almost hurts in the good sort of way, so he sighs, “Love, need you. Inside, _please._ ” And because he means it, and because the tinge of urgency isn’t there anymore (because he already knows he has Erik, and Erik has him, and it will happen, and it will be far from the last time it does, and, ironically, that makes this all the more impossible to take this for granted), and, well, maybe because he’s never called Erik that before—Erik’s lips twitch like he can’t decide on a smile or a frown, Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and his eyes get shiny.

So Erik surges up and nods almost frenetically into Charles’ neck before he goes to work kissing and sucking there, and then he’s stripping the both of them of the last of their clothes.

There’s a pause – Erik reaching over for the lubricant at the bedside table – and Charles takes a moment to just look. Erik is beautiful in a lot of ways (every way Charles can think of, if he is honest). He is muscle and sinew and long lines, sex-flushed, bright-eyed, and swollen-lipped. His hair is in clumsy disarray because Charles likes to bury his fingers in it when they kiss (because maybe he secretly prefers it this way), and he’s slow-moving, all grace, an unhurried prelude for what’s to come.

But Erik is most beautiful to Charles in the way his mind stretches to all the corners of the room when they make love, in the way the pain stills because he’s too blinded by the way Charles pleads for him (and all of him, unconditionally) to notice the darker parts, the way he needs Charles in his head for all of it (not controlling or influencing; just _being_ ), in the way he’s inexplicably, unbelievably (terrifyingly) put all of his trust in one man, in Charles, and Charles’ heart does ache at that, so fiercely he’s not sure what to do with himself.

Erik’s eyes snap up to his, and Charles must be wearing everything on his face, because Erik’s looking bewildered and maybe a little worried.

Charles just says, “It’s alright.” And he touches Erik's chest where the pulse is the strongest, smiles easily, and says, “You…You know.” while he presses his palm into Erik’s heartbeat.

Erik does know. Charles can tell by the thick swallow and the way his expression crumbles to something between fear and hope; by the way he completely stills.

Charles brings him back.

“Here,” He brings his hand out, supplicating. “Let me.”

Erik bites his lip like he’s trying to stifle a noise, eyes clouding in lust again, and he presses the bottle in Charles’ hand.

Charles slicks his fingers up and gives it his all to look casual about it. He’s never done this before, not for Erik or anyone, and there’s a whisper of self-doubt and maybe even insecurity as he reaches between his thighs. He’s sitting on Erik’s lap now, and Erik parts his legs to give him room.

He doesn’t look at Erik as he slips the first finger in. He’s tight, probably a little too tense, but then there’s a sharp intake of breath and the metallic snap of a metal drawer handle nearby, so he looks. He looks and he sees Erik’s eyes full of unadulterated lust, his hands fisting the sheets, the aching jut of his cock, and if that’s not enough, he hears _my god he’s gorgeous like this does he have any idea what he looks like, want to have him every way._

So Charles relaxes, and the rest comes easy enough, and he slips another finger in. His breath catches, and he parts his fingers, spread wide; sits on them fully and moans around Erik’s name. Erik’s thighs are locked around his body, but they’re quivering with need now, and Erik’s panting, thinking _need to touch, fuck, please, Charles,_ over and over again.

Charles meets his eyes effortlessly this time. He wriggles another finger in, whines at the stretch and curls them sharply, and then he’s almost wailing with it because it’s _there_ , right there, and it feels—

“Erik,” he groans indecently. There are no reservations now, and he’s shamelessly wanton as he fucks himself on his fingers. He thrusts them in and out, already stretched and relaxed and needing Erik’s cock inside. 

“Let me…let me take care of you.” Charles sighs breathily, stopping so that he can coat his other hand in lube. He slicks Erik up, as if he wasn’t leaking badly already, rasps his thumb over the flushed head. He swears he can feel it throbbing, and God, he can’t wait to have it in him, can’t wait to hear Erik’s heated panting turn into heartfelt groans that shake his core, can’t wait to get lost in each other and shackle away old hurts.

He wants Erik to feel warm, indulged. Safe. Charles must be succeeding, because there’s a calm thrum in his head and a beautiful softening of Erik’s features.

Charles pulls his hands away, sees that they’re shaking, and he’s honestly not sure when that started, but then it doesn’t matter, because Erik’s are, too. And then Charles is leaning back a little, shifting his hips in a sinuous movement and feeling the head of Erik’s cock rubbing at his hole.

Erik says, “ _Oh_ ,” rough and choked and thrilled. His hands find Charles’ hips and he rubs the skin there, little circles with his thumbs. There’s a pause. Charles braces himself with his thighs, and Erik starts distracting him by running his palms up and down them, but then—then, he lowers himself, sits fully on Erik’s stiffened arousal, and Erik arches into him with a hoarse cry.

As well-endowed as Erik is, there is not a hint of discomfort. Charles can’t ever remember _needing_ so much, with all of his being. Something’s changed between them. There’s a new ease to this that there wasn’t before. The joy bubbling in his chest chases away the last traces of grief, and he can’t help but smile a little.

Erik’s leaning up, pressing himself flush against Charles and finally, finally they’re kissing again. His lips are still a little swollen and tingling, and it feels so wonderful it almost hurts. Erik’s tongue pushes into his mouth with a relaxed surety he’s never had before now, and Charles groans into it. Erik’s fingers rest at his nape, rubbing the skin there almost soothingly.

Charles breaks away with a gasp after a few moments, because Erik’s still throbbing away inside of him and he needs to move. So he rocks his hips up, almost all the way off Erik’s cock, and then deep inside again. Erik busies his mouth with Charles’ throat and he’s groaning faintly; they both are, unable to keep silent, to even keep measured breaths anymore.

It feels like there’s not enough air. It’s thick with the kind of musk that can only be sex, and Charles loves that, too; loves how it’s so heavy he almost chokes on it.

Erik is starting to thrust into him; meets Charles’ own movements perfectly until they’ve got the rhythm down just right, until Charles almost ruins it by shaking badly, too sensitive and wrecked in the best way for it.

He’s surprised he hasn’t come yet. His own arousal has been rubbing pleasurably between their bodies, and the feeling of Erik inside of him is already almost too much. He didn’t know it could feel this good and not be over. There is not a part of him that doesn’t ache with it.

He melds himself into Erik then, feels him shake through it, too, until he’s thrusting up with jerkier movements that would clue Charles in to his building orgasm if the obvious signs in his head didn’t.

And Charles is there, too; _not quite there_ but he couldn’t stop himself from coming if he wanted to, now, what with feeling Erik wrapped all around him physically and mentally because it’s too much; it's just too much and it’s tearing his nerves apart until, until—

“Oh…Oh, Erik,” he cries, jutting his hips forward and, for this very moment, truly unaware of anything in the world except for Erik.

And then he’s having an orgasm that’s almost soul-shattering, certain it’s also the weight of Erik’s, but Erik is feeling Charles’, too. He’s moaning Charles’ name into his skin, sounding half-frenzied and out of his mind.

Charles is almost beside himself, even as the feeling ebbs gently. He’s never been in Erik’s head that deeply before, he realizes. And he didn’t mean to, isn’t even quite sure when he lost control, but Erik hushes him with an “It’s alright,” and a kiss to his sweaty forehead before he can sever the connection.

He’s deliriously happy at those words. The endorphins bouncing around in his head don’t hurt, certainly, and he can’t help but smile blindingly at Erik’s show of trust.

He stays perched in Erik’s lap for a good few minutes, wraps his arms around him, until they both stop trembling. Then he’s pulling back gently and settling into bed. Erik follows and doesn’t even hesitate to meet his eyes.

They’ll clean up a little later. But for now, Charles feels too boneless to move much at all. But he still has the energy to incline his head forward a little and press chaste kisses all over Erik’s face – cheeks, eyelids, chin, and finally his lips. It’s slow and languid and something about it makes Charles burrow closer, makes him sigh happily when Erik relaxes into him.

His body aches wonderfully from the shock of their sex. His nerves are still redolent with pleasure, even as his body is spent. And as awful as this day was supposed to be, was going to be, it’s pulsing with the glow of something else now.

And Erik—Erik is breathing deep and easy, eyes soft, fully present again.

Charles knows that he loves him. He could say it. He will say it. He will say it when the dust has settled, when they’ve gone, maybe when he’s got Erik like this again but there’s no undercurrent of darkness in the souls around them.

Maybe when Erik is sure he is home, Charles will say it.

\--

(It’s on the coastline, everything soggy with frigid rain and sleet, nothing like Cuba, because Erik’s crazy enough to go out in it, and Charles follows him because it’s _Erik_ , and it’s miles from the mansion and he can’t hear a thing but Erik’s near-frightened contentment and anger giving way to melancholy after it’s all said and done, so he presses the words into Erik’s sodden hair, means it with everything he has, and finds himself in the wide and yawning depth of Erik’s mind when he pulls Charles _in, in_ , and never lets go.)


End file.
